A Worthwhile Investment
by Gamemakers
Summary: The way the critics wrote about Ren these days, one would think he had splashed a bit of himself on the canvas to make his masterpieces. Only Hux understands how accurate that interpretation truly is.
1. Number 1A

**A/N:** This story does contain some potentially triggering content. Though there is no explicit sex, some sadistic elements are present, and the relationship depicted is somewhat abusive. Some story elements are inspired by the life of Jackson Pollock. All other events are fictional.

* * *

"You said you were looking for investment works. This guy – he's something special. He's gonna be big."

Hux followed him into the gallery. "So far today, you've shown me the work of three artists, all of whom are apparently something special and certain to balloon in popularity in the next two years."

In another life, Silas Kanzer might have been a grub. Balding, with sickly pink-grey skin that looked filthy even after being scrubbed raw, it was all too easy of a comparison to make. And yet he had managed to become one of New York's premiere art dealers. One had to wonder what the world was coming to. The smile he gave Hux, revealing crooked yellow teeth. "I've been saving the best for last. Trust me." Finally, they reached the last room of the exhibit.

Stunning. Nearly three meters across and perhaps two meters high, the painting dominated the room. The others – attractive pieces, he was certain, and perhaps they showed some artistic merit as well – could not hope to compete. It… he couldn't begin to explain. Dark and deep, blue and red on black, hot, masculine, a fight played out in color. Brilliant. And like all brilliant, beautiful things, it had to be his.

"Should I get the paperwork started?" Kanzer must have smelled the sale in the air. A disgusting man, but Hux supposed he did have his uses.

He nodded, not bothering to look away from the painting. "And Kanzer."

"Yes?"

Hux dragged his eyes away from the painting to the plaque beside it. "I would very much like to meet this Kylo Ren." Though Hux had traveled extensively over four continents, the name still felt foreign on his tongue. But collectors were collectors, whether it was wine or art or geniuses, and he could not let anything as bright as Ren slip through his fingers because of a few eccentricities.

"I can arrange that."

* * *

Artists, in his experience, were poorly-adjusted creatures. Social niceties often seemed beyond their comprehension, and Hux had wondered once or twice if most of them might be happier living out in the forest somewhere as modern-day hermits. Though, he supposed, that would limit their audience. And many, possibly most, absolutely required an audience. Prima donnas disguised in suits of brilliance was all they were.

No landlady or doorman had greeted them when they rang, and nobody had come when Kanzer forced the door open and let Hux inside. Breaking and entering seemed to be hardly a punishable offense in this neighborhood. It wasn't as though there was anything to steal. The best a burglar could hope to make out with were fleas and a few otherwise-eradicated diseases. He was careful not to touch the handrail as he followed Kanzer up the steep, narrow staircase. Perhaps this was the new face of masculinity. After coming back from the war, men hadn't bothered to wipe the mud from their dungarees before settling into their new lives. Polished steel and noble honor replaced by the weapons of industrial warfare and the near-slaves who operated them. It was no wonder the world was in such sharp decline.

Standing in the landing before Ren's door, he felt quite the relic of better days long since forgotten. The intensity of the sensation only increased when Kanzer's knock was answered. What lay beyond was a jungle of open paint cans, sheets spread haphazardly to protect the floorboards, half-eaten meals left to rot on their plates, and standing before it, a dark figure that seemed as likely as his flat to fly apart into total chaos. The man was tall, at least a couple inches taller than Hux, who was certainly not a short man, and his shoulders were broad enough that he took up most of the doorway. "Who are you?"

"Ren, my boy! You haven't forgotten me, have you? I said I'd be dropping by with a friend today." Kanzer smiled, and Hux did not envy Ren as its intended recipient. The man made his flesh crawl.

A moment's confusion passed. "Is it Thursday already? I thought it was Wednesday. I thought I'd get the place cleaned up a bit before you came." Where, precisely, one could lose a day was rather beyond Hux. What had he been thinking when he'd suggested this meeting? A moment's insanity; it must have been. Now that he had found himself again, it would be simple to extract himself, to pretend as though none of this had ever happened. Art, no matter how powerful, wasn't worth this. "Come on in." An order, not a question, for Ren sounded as though he would not hesitate to fetch the kitchen knife Hux spotted on the table behind him should they choose to do otherwise. Perhaps this was the way the man always presented himself. Rather a large part of Hux suspected he did. Such idiosyncrasies did make for an interesting specimen.

A minute or two wouldn't hurt, and he couldn't very well back out now, and so, Hux found himself stepping into the lion's den. Two steps in, he stepped on a stray paintbrush, leaving blue on the bottom of his boot that he was sure would prove impossible to remove. Three steps in, he could have sworn he saw something small and black skitter between a plate left on the floor and a pile of old newspapers. "This is Brendol Hux. Mister Hux is the man who made such a generous offer on the piece in the Charles Egan Gallery."

He peeled his eyes away from the newspapers to give Ren a tight, forced half-smile. It would have been polite to shake hands, but Hux had no desire to soak his hands in bleach after this encounter.

"What do you think of the work?"

"I think it'll make a lovely decoration for my living room." A deliberate barb, and one that any self-respecting artist could hardly ignore. Ren's reaction should at least prove interesting.

"Three hundred dollars is a lot of money for a decoration." Not the type to stand down, then, even to his betters. Hux rethought his earlier assessment. Perhaps he could work with this man. If the works behind him were any indication, the risk was well worth the reward.

"I would be very interested to see what else you have been working on." Hux was more interested than he could admit to while retaining the upper hand. A rather unfortunate position, but one that with even a modicum of luck, would go unnoticed.

"I'll take you around. See if you can't find any more decorations for your living room," he sneered. "But guessing by the way you've been studying everything you can see in here, I think we all know you're going to walk out of here poorer than you walked in."

And despite Ren's hostility, he did, for the only thing that wounded Hux's pride more than being shown up was losing a masterpiece.


	2. Convergence

The terms they negotiated were generous: a hundred and fifty dollars a month for a year, by the end of which he would have a mural-size painting for the entryway of his townhouse. In addition, Hux would be allowed to select his ten favorite pieces of Ren's from that time period for himself without additional payment.

Ren had not hesitated to sign the contract Hux's lawyers had made up, but that did not stop him from defying its every clause. No, defy was too mature of a word, for it made it seem as though Ren had some well-reasoned argument for why the demands upon him were unreasonable. The man was a child about even the most reasonable requests. How dare Hux ask to see the progress being made on his paintings? It was absolutely preposterous that a man would want to know that the labor he was paying nearly two thousand dollars for was truly being completed. Every phone call ended with Hux swearing at the disconnected line, and Ren hadn't returned any of the weekly telegrams and letters he sent inquiring as to his progress.

But Hux did not employ some of the best lawyers in New York for nothing, and three weeks before his painting was due for completion, he stood outside Ren's apartment again, impatiently waiting for his appointment. Any reasonable person would think, given that Hux had essentially paid all of Ren's bills for the last several months, that the man could at the very least be on time. As was so often the case with Kylo Ren, the reasonable individual would be wrong. Fifteen minutes late already, and still no sign of him. At least a young couple – unmarried and disheveled, classless – had been kind enough to let him into the building. The apartment itself proved more of a challenge.

He had tried knocking. Twice, actually, and to no avail. More from frustration than any real hope that Ren would respond, he knocked a third time, pounding hard enough that the door bucked on its hinges. "Be quiet!" a muffled voice came from inside. Seconds later, a very upset Kylo Ren appeared. "What do you think you're doing?" There was alcohol on his breath and a slight slur to his words, but Hux had come to expect that from Ren.

"What do I think I'm doing? Showing up for the appointment we made weeks ago. The one where you so graciously agreed to show me the progress you've been making." He did not even try to keep the acid out of his voice. Hux did not require gratefulness, but a bit of respect would not be amiss. It seemed he had come to expect too much of today's artists.

Ren's lip twitched, and he waited several seconds too long before moving out of the way and allowing Hux inside. The apartment was no cleaner than it had been the first time he'd visited. The floor served as a giant ashtray for dozens or even hundreds of cigarette butts, paint boot prints tracked everywhere, and something dark was smeared over one of the walls. Hux could only hope it was paint or food.

Only a few items had managed to escape the curse of filthiness that rested over the apartment. Thankfully, one of them was the canvas he had supplied for the entryway piece. Eight feet tall, twenty feet wide, and by some miracle, it had been left pristine. Perfectly white, still, and completely untouched. "Your progress is astounding."

"It'll be done on time."

"There are three weeks until that needs to be perfect and hanging in my foyer. You've had the canvas for months." Growing up, Hux had always been more afraid when his father was quietly angry than when he shouted. Now, he found that same tone to use with Kylo. Mixing money, influence, and anger made for a very dangerous concoction.

"That's not how art works."

"And how is it that art works? Does it just appear out of nowhere fully –" He was interrupted when Ren grabbed his paintbrush and put a huge splatter of red paint onto the otherwise blank canvas. Hux's mouth dropped open as the crimson paint dripped down the canvas. After what must have only been a second, though it felt like an eternity, he snapped his jaw shut. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

Ren narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to force me. And this - " he dipped the dirty brush into another can of paint and sent more paint splashing onto both canvas and wall " – this shit is what you get when you try to force art."

"I paid for that."

"You're paying for the mastery, not the supplies." The man was drunk. He could see the half-empty bottle of whiskey, as well several empties scattered about. He shouldn't be able to keep up with an argument, much less win one.

"I am paying for your so-called mastery and your materials. My money is what keeps you alive, Ren. You would do well to keep that in mind when addressing me." Heat was spreading underneath the collar of his coat, creeping up his neck, and Hux's heart pounded in his ears. Anger, yes, but pure anger was not so invigorating. Hux was not an old man, but it had been years since he had felt young. The passion, the feeling of youth, all of it had abandoned him too quickly, but this… this was marvelous.

"I don't want to talk to you anymore. Come back in three weeks to collect your work."

He had no right to dismiss him, and Hux normally would have pointed that out, but the brush was still in Ren's hands, and his coat and boots were both only days old. So, he summoned up the most chilling smile he could and nodded. "I look forward to your attempts to apologize."

"And I look forward to never having to see you again."

Petty, petty. Any real opponent could do better. But nobody else he had come across made this quite so enjoyable. Life was a game of sacrifice, wasn't it?

* * *

He kept away for a week and a half. Hux was not sure what brought him back. He told himself that the reason was simple: he needed to check on Ren's progress, make sure that there would be a painting in time for the dinner party he was planning for the night of May fourth. If asked, though, Hux would not have denied that he was looking forward to another argument with Kylo Ren.

Over these last ten days, he had made a point of learning a bit more about the artist. Information on Ren was not difficult to find. Wading through the web of exaggerations, half-truths, and downright lies that surrounded the artist to piece together a basic biography was much harder. Eventually, though, Hux had managed to glean several interesting insights into Ren. He was not, as Hux had assumed, a lower-class boy just lucky enough to avoid a lifetime spent tending a factory line. Rather, Ren's maternal grandfather had been Senator Bail Organa, whose integrity in office had been unheard of both during his lifetime and afterwards. Hux may not have agreed with Organa's policies, but time and time again, he had heard people his parents' age and older speak fondly of the man's genuine caring for his constituents and unwillingness to play the games of the party. Organa's daughter had made a less-than-advantageous marriage to a suspected pirate, the result of which had been Kylo Ren. Or, as his birth certificate claimed, Ben Solo. Hux had been unable to find the story behind the name change. It must have had something to do with some sort of family infighting, for several sources suggested that the Solos and their only son no longer communicated. In any case, Ren had burst onto the art scene four years prior, a dirt-poor twenty-five-year-old with no family ties or formal training but a brilliant talent. Whether he had been sober a single day since moving out of his parents' house was entirely up for debate.

Knowledge, Hux's father had often lectured his son, was power, and armed with this new weapon, Hux raised a hand to knock on Ren's apartment door. No response came, but then, he hadn't really expected one. Even if he did happen to be in, Ren didn't seem one to welcome visitors. Respect and a firmly engrained set of social niceties made him wait a minute or two before knocking again. When the second knock went unanswered as well, Hux grabbed his pocket knife and used the blade to jiggle the lock open. Though he didn't like that his art, his investments, were being stored in such an unsecure location, it did make it easy to check on Ren's progress.

Ah, it seemed the man wasn't home. Their argument would have to wait for another day. Hux's hand froze on the doorknob when he laid eyes on the painting. It was not finished, not even close, but already, it was brilliant. Anger coiled within it, pressurized to the point where one could imagine thick, viscous rage erupting, volcanic, from the thick-caked paint. He wanted to find a better spot from which to view the work, but Hux's options were very limited, for the canvas only barely fit in Ren's apartment. Ren's lumpy mattress had been pushed all the way into the corner to make room for it, and still, there was no room to walk between the bed and the edge of the painting. Still, he moved around what little furniture Ren had, trying his best to fit the entire work into his field of vision. He could examine every detail later; for now, he wanted the full effect.

He had only just settled for standing on Ren's bed, boots still on, for it wouldn't make any difference with the mess the man had already made, when he heard the roar. Animal, furious, and certainly Ren. Every stair groaned as he sprinted up them, and Hux thought for a moment about moving away, but where would the fun be in that?

"How'd you get in here?" A lock of Ren's too-long dark hair was glued with sweat to his forehead, and his brown eyes were wide with anger.

Hux looked down at him from his perch on the bed. "It wasn't difficult to open the door. I'm disappointed in how poorly you've been protecting my investment, particularly in this neighborhood."

"You have no right to be here."

"Legally, no, but I pay for this apartment. I can come and go as I please. As much as you don't want to admit it, you need me, Ren."

"Get out!" His ears rang at the words shouted so close to his face, but he did not move.

"Manners," he scolded.

Hux had suspected that Kylo Ren's breaking point was close. He had not realized just how dangerous of territory he had entered. The board connected with his side with enough force to send him tumbling over. But years of military school had not been for nothing, and before he hit the ground, he was rolling into the fall, and by the time the next strike came, he was ready. Dodge, scan the room for a suitable weapon, lunge towards his opponent. These were the steps to their dance, choreographed for the two performers alone. And as Hux executed a swift kick, the first blow he'd landed, it came to an immediate halt. He could not have harmed Ren, at least not seriously, for he knew what a forceful kick felt like, and this had had little power behind it, but the man did not move. His eyes, though, his eyes never left Hux's. And though he knew Ren could speak, for he'd caught his leg, not his chest, the man said nothing.

"Get up so I can hit you again." The man did it without question, and Hux felt a surge of power that he hadn't since his time in the military. He waited until Kylo was straight before again lashing out, this time with a swift, solid punch to the stomach.

Ren hissed, and he clutched a hand to his abdomen for a minute or two, but soon enough, he straightened. "Another." A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Hux knew where he would aim next.

It was wrong, not what he had been looking for at all when he came to Ren's apartment the first day, and dangerous, but that made it all the more powerful. Hux pulled off his gloves and set them neatly down on the bed, folded over each other just as they should be. Ren's cheekbones were sharp against his hand, and the slap probably caused him as much pain as Ren. Watching him take the pain, asking for more, it brought up feelings that he had suppressed for years, ones that he would have been happy enough to never consider again. Hux had been lucky to get away with those times with the other boys during boarding school, and now, he had far more to lose. One could forgive a teenager, struggling with new desires, who spent their days with only other males for company. For a grown man, acceptance would be far harder to come by.

But yet, here was Ren, willing to stand there and accept every blow he gave. It was impossible not to consider what else he might be willing to take.

"Hux?" One word, quiet, but it was enough to make up his mind. Hux pulled Ren down by his hair for a kiss that was more teeth than lips, and Ren began to tug at his clothes, ignoring the buttons and clasps in an attempt to get them off as quickly as possible. For the first time in years, Hux allowed the tidal wave of teeth, nails, and skin to drag him under.

* * *

Later, once his heart rate had returned to something near normal and they had made cursory attempts at cleaning themselves up, Hux found he could no longer keep quiet. "I certainly hope you don't think you're going to be paid extra because of this."

Ren smirked at him around the cigarette he held between his lips. "We'll call it artistic inspiration." He was more muscular than Hux would have expected, and he found himself watching how Ren's abdominals tensed as the man groped around the floor by the bed for his lighter. "Care for one?"

"Yes, thank you." They smelled cheap and dirty, and at this point, he probably did too. It was freeing, to smoke in bed and not care if a bit of ash dropped onto the sheets, to be able to grind the butt into the floor when he was finished.

Kylo spread out, and Hux wasn't certain he liked the feeling of the other man's bare skin touching his own now that the need of the moment had died off. Still, he did not move. Laziness, perhaps. Possibly a lingering bit of afterglow. He chose not to consider any other possibilities, and unlike Ren, he had the discipline to abide by that decision. "How long do you estimate it will take for the painting to be completed?" Business or pleasure, never both. A rule to live by, and one he would have to hold himself to a higher standard on in the future.

Ren shrugged, and the movement of the muscles of the other man's arms against his chest sent goosebumps all the way up and down his body. "Three days? Eight? Depends."

"On?" He had to search for that hint of annoyance. Usually, it was so easy to summon.

That smirk again. Lopsided, perhaps a bit too large to be proportionate to the rest of his face, but yet, attractive all the same. "Artistic inspiration," he laughed, and Hux's stomach twisted in a way that was not entirely unpleasant.


	3. Guardians of the Secret

"It is an incredible acquisition on your part."

"Thank you. I agree. Kylo Ren has promise." Praise from Snoke, long considered the most discerning art critic of the new era, was nearly unheard of.

"I would say that promise has been well developed under your patronage."

Hux raised his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag as he basked in the compliment. The other guests had been impressed – naturally, for he did not make a habit of bringing fools into his home – but none of their thoughts had behind them the taste to compare with Snoke's opinion. "He has grown in the last year, certainly. I am interested to see what he creates going forward."

"As am I." Snoke leaned in closer to the painting. _Mural_ , in its final form, was incomparable. Hux would admit himself biased, but not even the work of the old masters could compare with the flat but expanding mass of paint. With their brushes, they had created altars to their saints and gods. Ren had created a monument to art itself. It was a piece best viewed by one or two, as its sheer size lost its impact when one stood with a group, and now, with just Snoke for company, Hux regained a sense of its grandeur. It was a pity that the others had not stayed to admire Ren's work longer. But having finished their cocktails and given the necessary admiration to the work, they had migrated upstairs to the formal dining room, and Hux could no longer put off joining them.

He snuffed out his cigarette on a nearby ashtray. "May I show you upstairs?"

Snoke nodded, and together, they joined the rest of the party in the dining room. Rooms fit for a party of thirty were few and far between in Manhattan, but Hux would have nothing but the best. The parties he held here had long brought the very best of New York's upper class together, and the noise of two dozen voices that he heard from the other side was to be expected.

Still, he felt something was out of place, and when Hux opened the door, his suspicions were confirmed. The beautifully paneled room, the crystal chandelier, the massive fireplace… he cared little for the design itself, but he would not allow someone else to have better. And only feet away, Ren stood, urinating into the fireplace and ruining everything Hux had worked all his life to build. His blood went cold, and the muscles of Hux's jaw clenched as he fought to keep himself calm.

"I see he still has much to learn." After his earlier praise, Snoke's words stung even more, and they forced Hux into action.

"Excuse the two of us. I hope you'll enjoy your meals." With a nod to Datoo, who stood with his mouth hanging open, he pulled Ren from the room. "What were you thinking?" he hissed once the door had slammed shut behind them.

Ren shrugged. "I needed to go."

"You animal. I'd do well to beat some sense into –" His words were cut off when Ren pushed him into the wall.

"You have no right to speak to me like that."

"You embarrassed me and yourself in front of the most important art critic in the country, not to mention twenty-five other dealers and collectors."

"I hurt myself more than you, then." His face was red, more from liquor than anger, Hux thought. What had he been thinking to allow Ren all the alcohol he could drink at an event like this? No, what had he been thinking to allow a child to spoil such an important moment?

"Do you understand what you've done?"

"I know very well –"

"Be quiet. Just be quiet and listen to me. You're a child. A fucking spoiled brat who thinks they can go through life treating everyone like toys and trash and never have to make up for it. You think they'll forgive you for it because you know how to paint." Ren had gone terribly silent. Good. "Is that what happened with your parents? You pushed them far enough that even they couldn't love you anymore?"

"Stop it. You don't know anything." Hux could make out the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

"Oh really? I think I'm coming too close to the truth for you. They did decide they hated you, then. And I know what you did then. You screamed and shouted and had a goddamn temper tantrum over the whole thing, and you still won't admit to anyone that it was all your fault in the first place. You're the reason for all of it."

"I said be quiet."

Hux forced himself to relax. "I think I've left you with quite enough to think about. We won't be expecting your company at dinner." He adjusted his suit, smoothing out a wrinkle that had developed over one shoulder.

"I'm leaving."

"No, you aren't. We still have much to discuss." He plucked a bit of hair – dark, long, almost certainly Ren's – from his jacket. "I'll give Datoo orders to make sure you don't leave this townhouse." His eyes met Ren's, brown and steady and full of as much hate as one person could muster, and though he felt the threat there, he did not back down. "There's a powder room down the hall. I suggest you make use of it to clean yourself up or if any other urges should strike."

* * *

With the other guests safely gone, now was his opportunity. "You're in no state to be going home. Stay the night. I'll have a room made up for you." If he sounded gentle, it was only in the way a snake might seem while luring its prey into its hole.

Ren huffed. "I'm not staying here." The depth of his voice could not disguise that they were a child's words.

Hux grabbed him by his collar and pulled him down an inch or two so they were eye to eye. "That was not a suggestion."

He was braced for the blow that followed. He knew, now, to expect the warmth that flooded his system along with it, but Hux didn't yet know how to prepare for something strong. How could he? He'd never encountered Ren's – no, _Kylo's_ – particular mixture of anger and brilliance, and it sent him over an edge he hadn't known existed.

That didn't mean his shoulder didn't hurt where Kylo's fist had connected, or that he didn't want to cause Ren just as much pain in exchange. A punch to the side of the face, then. They had both rather enjoyed that last time. He got a bit more ear than cheek, but the grunt was the same, and the stirrings in his stomach were now almost familiar. The slightest of smiles began to spread across his features as he wound up for another blow.

"Oof." Ren wasn't being gentle now. He followed the strike to the Hux's ribs with one to his stomach that made Hux collapse to his knees, gasping for breath. He curled in on himself to shield off another blow. A drunk man should not be able to do this to him. But that was what made him interesting, wasn't it?

Ren kneeled down beside him. With surprisingly gentle hands, he rolled Hux onto his back and pulled his knees away from his chest. "Are you trying to kill me?" Hux said, his voice weaker than he wanted.

"Not now." He felt well enough now to sit up, but when he tried, Ren pushed him back down. Ren's eyes traveled up and down Hux's form, and he felt like nothing so much as a specimen pinned down and ready to be cut for the vivisectionist's enjoyment. "You're interesting, General."

His title on Ren's lips sent blood rushing to his groin. He had never told Ren of his time in the military: of that much, he was certain. Perhaps Kanzer had mentioned it to Ren, or perhaps Ren had researched him in much the same way he had Ren. In either case, now wasn't the time for questions. Hux reached up to grab Ren by his hair, pull him down for a kiss, but Ren stopped his hands, pinning them above his head with one hand. The other roamed freely over Hux's body, starting by ruffling his neatly-styled hair and continuing down over his chest and shoulders to linger around his erection. "You like this. You like me."

"This. Not you."

"This?" With one hand, he ground down on Hux's erection with enough force to be painful. Over Hux's groan, he added, "No, you could get sex out of anyone. You have enough money to pay off some boy to let you fuck him, to be as rough as you want and keep him quiet about it. But you come to me. Why?"

"Cheaper." He earned a backhanded slap for that one.

"The real reason."

Hux wanted to answer, but deep inside himself, he had to admit he didn't know. Ren waited a moment for a reply, but when none came, he stood. "I'll have Kanzer bring over the paintings later this week so you can take your pick of them." With those words and a final kick to Hux's abdomen, he was gone.

* * *

He hadn't known the article in _Life_ was coming _._ The magazine wasn't one of his regular reads, but when he spotted Ren's name on the cover while he was waiting for an appointment, he had to give it a look. "Kylo Ren: Is he the greatest living painter in the United States?" Just above the title, Ren posed with his work – something new, not one Hux had seen before – cigarette in mouth and smirking, smug as ever. The last three years, it seemed, had not had much impact on the man. Same too-long dark hair, same strong build. Hux had little doubt that the floor, had it been pictured, would have been covered in Ren's trademark filth.

After checking that the receptionist wasn't watching him, Hux stowed the magazine in his briefcase. He waited until he was safely in the back of his car and being chauffeured home to retrieve it. Smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from the page, he soaked up every word. Brilliant, genius, violent, hyper-masculine… he had said it all before. The rest of the world, down to the uncultured idiots _Life_ catered to, was finally catching on. Vindicated, he leaned back in his seat, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. Then, something outside caught his eye. "Datoo, pull over here."

The traffic in Manhattan was a nightmare at the best of times, but from three-thirty to seven on weekdays, it approached perfect gridlock. Still, Datoo knew his place, and so without question, he maneuvered around half a dozen yellow taxi cabs, horns honking all around them, to allow Hux out directly in front of the magazine stall.

Five minutes, twenty-four magazines, and five dollars later, Hux slipped back into his seat. That night, he stowed one of the copies in the bookshelf closest to _Mural_ and one in his nightstand. The others were given to Datoo with instructions to personally see them delivered to a Mr. K. Ren.

* * *

Dead at thirty-seven. What a waste. Of life, certainly, for Ren hadn't even summoned the self-control to limit his self-destruction to himself. The poor girl would go down as the footnote attached to Ren's name in the history books. He should have known better than to drive in that state. She should have known better than to get in the car with him. And in the end, Hux supposed, they had both deserved what came to them.

More importantly, though, what a waste of talent. He still came down sometimes, on evenings like this one, when he was alone and the sun shone red-gold before it disappeared, to sit, drink, smoke and admire. _Mural_ – Ren must have thought himself clever when he'd named the painting, and now that he was gone, Hux had to admit he had been – was best viewed in this light, and melancholy tasted best mixed with a good brandy. The way the critics wrote about Ren these days, one would think he had splashed a bit of himself on the canvas – blood, piss, semen, the dirtier the better - to make a masterpiece. When the idiots turned back to poetry from criticism, their romantic notions would seem less insipid.

The anger, the unbridled rage that was Ren, did live on in the painting. That much, he would cede. The black streaks could as easily have been the cuts of a saber digging deep into the wall, and the red spatters that joined them required no explanation. Fascinating, really, and a bloody mess. Just like him.

 _Mural_ would turn him a tidy profit if he ever deigned to part with it. Hux supposed that was one bright side of being dead: it made you worth far more. Pity Ren wasn't here to see it.

Tonight, even the brandy failed to sweeten his palette, so he set it aside and reached for the cigarette case in his pocket instead. The case, ebony, monogrammed, and expensive, always held the finest cigarettes money could buy, but he'd made a habit these last few years of tucking a few cheap smokes in there as well. He picked up a Marlboro and held it between his lips for a few seconds before lighting it, savoring the flavor before it burned away.

* * *

 **A/N:** As noted earlier, many story elements are heavily inspired by the life of Jackson Pollock. The financial arrangement between Hux and Ren is similar (though not identical to) the one between Peggy Guggenheim and Pollock in the mid-1940s. He did paint a painting on canvas titled Mural as part of this arrangement, but the painting does not match the description given. He was written about in a Life magazine article from 1949 that, like Ren's, was titled "Jackson Pollock. Is he the greatest living painter in the United States?" and the urinating in the fireplace story (whether it really happened or not) is also part of the Pollock legend. Pollock did die in an alcohol-related single-vehicle automobile accident. Thank you for reading!


End file.
